On June 26, 1997, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was released.

It’s hard to believe that it has been two decades since we were introduced to the magic of Hogwarts, the drudgery of the Dursleys, and the wisdom of Dumbledore.

I am lucky enough to be part of the generation that grew up with Harry, Hermione, and Ron.

Captivated, I eagerly devoured the novels – quite often finishing the last page, and immediately flicking back to the start to re-read them.

I counted the days until the next volume would be released.

And I’m not ashamed to admit, I took days off school on the books’ release dates, just so I could finish them before the spoilers came out (this is still one of the greatest things my mum has ever done for me).

I cried when (spoiler alert) Hedwig, Dobby, Lupin, and especially Dumbledore, died.

And there was an eerie sense of loss when I finished the series.

Some people dismiss the series, saying it’s just a children’s book series, and a passable movie franchise.

But its magic goes beyond Alohamora and Lumos.

Its magic is in the connection that it has created between so many readers, as the aforementioned experiences are not unique to me.

The author J.K. Rowling took a generation of muggles, and gave them a gift.

If I could have one wish, it would be an Obliviate spell, so I could forget the hours I’ve spent inside those pages, and rediscover the story all over again.

So happy birthday, Harry, and thank you, J.K.

Always.